The husband runs a hand along the Liatorp’s white lacquer finish. He says, “The Liatorp’s expensive. I don’t think we need the Liatorp. Our TV’s not that big.”

The wife frowns. She says, “How about the Gettorp?”

The husband examines the Gettorp. He says, “the Gettorp’s all right.”

The wife notes the bin and aisle number of the Gettorp with a miniature pencil. They are buying new furniture for their new life, the three of them. The Gettorp in black-brown, the couple in white-white, the baby in white-brown. The husband pushes the cart. The baby sits facing him. He wonders if he knows.

They are back in their bedroom. They assemble their new bed, the Gjöra. The baby watches them.

She says, “Do you have screws A and F? I need screws A and F.”

He says, “I don’t have them.”

“Shoot.”

“Did you ever bring him in our bed?” He asks.

She frowns. “What does it matter?”

“I need to know.”

She says, “It doesn’t matter anymore. That’s over. We have the Gjöra now.”

The husband looks at the pieces of the Gjöra, unreasonably splayed across the bedroom floor. “I don’t think the Gjöra is going to work,” the husband says. He says, “No, the Gjöra won’t work.”